


The Invincibility of Aramis

by DeadshotMusketeer



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-02
Updated: 2016-05-07
Packaged: 2018-06-05 20:22:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6721972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeadshotMusketeer/pseuds/DeadshotMusketeer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Complete.  Pure Aramis whump with main cast throughout.  Aramis only wanted, and expected, one thing when he returned to the garrison after a harrowing solo mission.  But when he doesn't receive what he so desperately needs, he's both saddened and hurt, and it's up to his brothers to seek forgiveness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**_Author’s Note_ ** _\- I’d like_ _to say this is a character driven story, but let’s face it, it’s probably just fluffy whump. Yes, it’s actually, most definitely, fluffy whump. But as an Aramis fan whose eyes continually track every movement and facial expression when he’s on screen, and leans closer to the television whenever a character speaks of him (and I’m sure I’m not the only one), I have noticed ‘things’ since nearly the first episode that have not sat well with me- this being the lack of responsiveness from other characters whenever something happens to him. So I decided to express my displeasure with how Aramis is treated by everyone when he seems to be in distress or his life hangs in the balance or they see him thrown out a window or better yet- when someone actually says he’s dead, by whumping the crap out of him to teach his friends a lesson on how they should not just assume he’s fine simply because he’s Aramis- which apparently means he can take care of himself so there’s no need to worry._

_Thank you, please enjoy, and think of this as a tribute to all of you who feel the same as I. And thank you to JenF for her most excellent beta reading of this story._

* * *

 

 

** The Invincibility of Aramis **

by DeadShotMusketeer 

**i.**

Aramis walked into the garrison incapable of stopping the sword in his hand from dragging on the ground. With his weapon belt dangling from cold, weak fingers, doublet undone and azure scarf thrown over his shoulder, he lumbered slowly through the archway. Placing one blistered and aching foot in front of the other, he trudged toward the table where his brothers sat eating, the tip of his sheathed sword drawing a line in the dirt behind him. 

Typically, the aroma of stew enticed his stomach, but right now it only made it clench. His lips quivered before spreading into a tight, thin line as he held back mutinous bile. His mouth watered not at the thought of eating but in anticipation of that bile, so he turned his nose away. The smell escalated the closer he came to the table, and augmented by the loud, boisterous chattering of his brothers, his need to lie down increased dramatically.

He came to a standstill just shy of the table, unsure if his sudden stop was solely due to the smell, or because his legs were so weak. His body swayed, and with his left hand slowly loosing strength, his weapon belt dropped even lower, his sword now almost parallel with the ground. He knew he looked a shamble of his normal self - hurting and dispirited, but the thought of his brothers coming to his aid brought him comfort.

He drew in a deep breath through his nose, wincing as his chest expanded and the wound on his back spread apart. He lifted his left arm, wanting to get his sword out of the dirt, but only achieved a few inches of height before his muscles refused to co-operate and his arm fell back to his side.

Deciding not to tempt fate again, he raised his right arm and tipped his hat off his face to swipe the cold sweat from his brow. There were many things he wanted to say to his brothers but his lips were not co-operating with his brain, and he found he could not speak lest a yawn were to escape.

“I see you’ve returned,” said Athos.

Porthos waved him toward to the table. “Come on, you must be starvin’.”

Aramis opened his mouth then closed it. He looked over his shoulder wondering if they were talking to someone else. Seeing no one, he turned back to his brothers. _Hungry_? He thought. _You think I’m hungry?_  

“You’re drenched,” said d’Artagnan, reaching for the ladle in the pot of stew occupying the centre of the table. “I don’t recall it raining today.”

_No_ , thought Aramis. _No, it didn’t_.

“Come,” said Athos, scooping out a bowl of stew Aramis assumed was for him. “Eat first. Then you can give Treville your report.”

Aramis looked up to the balcony, his neck protesting with cracking sounds as his head tilted back. He rested his eyes on his captain’s door for a long while before returning them to his brothers. The few steps to the table seemed a tremendous obstacle, but the thought of climbing the stairs and talking seemed insurmountable.

Again he drew in a deep breath, winced, and let it out slowly through pursed lips. He yearned to speak, but his mouth would still not co-operate.

“Why are you just standing there?” asked Porthos.

_My god_ , thought Aramis. _I’m actually too tired to answer my friend._

Athos stared at him from over his shoulder with a raised eyebrow. “Are you all right?”

The question felt like a slap to the face. _Of course I’m not all right!_

He took a deep breath to steady his fledgling nerves, grateful for at least a general inquiry directed as his well-being, but his brother’s lack of astuteness still baffled him. “What do you think?” he said, his head pitching to his right.

Porthos waved a hand and chuckled. “Course he’s all right. Just needs some food that’s all.”

“A little testy when he’s hungry?” asked d’Artagnan, a good-natured smile adorning his face.

Porthos grunted with amusement as he moved along the bench, presumably making room for him to sit down. “Aren’t we all,” he said.

Aramis watched in both shock and dismay. He couldn’t believe what he was experiencing and didn’t think he could stand there much longer without getting angry. He turned away before that happened, and walked toward the bunkhouse, not caring that his sword still dragged on the ground.

With his right hand braced around his torso, for he couldn’t actually reach the wound on his back, and with his head swimming in disbelief, he stepped into the cold shade of the building. Behind him, he heard Porthos’ voice across the courtyard.

“Hey, didn’t Aramis leave on horseback?”

Overwhelmed by his brother’s lack of discernment, Aramis dropped all his weight onto his left leg as he took the last step leading into the bunkhouse, nearly collapsing when his knee buckled under the load. _Yes_ , _Porthos_ , he thought, y _es I did._

**~**

Standing at muster the next morning, Athos leaned backward with his arms stretched behind his back. Treville had not yet arrived, and as he noticed while cranking his neck side to side to relieve the tightness, neither had Aramis.

“Where’s Aramis?”

Athos straightened and turned to d’Artagnan. “I was just wondering that myself.”

“The Captain’s gonna kill him if he’s still sleepin’” said Porthos.

Athos looked right, catching the large musketeer midway through a yawn. “Did you see him this morning?” he asked. 

Porthos shook his head. “Naw. But I wasn’t really looking either,” he said. “Slept late.”

“I saw him last night,” said d’Artagnan. “Saw him walk into the refectory just before dawn.” 

Athos turned to the Gascon on his other side.

“Unlike some people,” said d’Artagnan, a light lilt in his voice. “I like to be prepared for morning muster.” 

Porthos growled which made Athos smile. He always enjoyed when their young friend gave back what he was so often given. “What was he doing?”

D’Artagnan frowned. “Going to eat I presume.”

“Yeah,” said Porthos, hitching his thumbs into his belt. “Missed evenin’ meal last night remember? Probably woke up starving.”

It was a reasonable explanation. Athos glanced around the courtyard, wondering if he’d slipped in late and was standing near the back. “But where is he now?” he asked when his search came up empty. 

“Here’s a better question,” said Porthos, pulling out his thumbs to stand straight. “Will the Captain notice him gone?”

Athos turned his eyes front and pulled his body to a stand-easy position when he saw Treville. His stomach turned knowing there was no way for their captain to miss Aramis’ absence when he usually stood there along side them each morning. 

He listened to their captain detailing yesterday’s late dispatches and todays’ orders, his stomach twisting each minute Aramis’ absence was not mentioned. At one point, Athos thought he caught Treville looking at him sideways. Their captain almost seemed surprised to see them there.

“Were we supposed to be somewhere else this mornin’?” whispered Porthos.

Athos frowned. “You saw that too?”

“You mean the Captain lookin’ at us funny? Yeah.”

Athos shuffled his feet, took a quick look around then returned his attention back to Treville.

“Why do I get the feeling it’s not Aramis that’s missing, but us,” said d’Artagnan.

“Like he’s where we’re supposed to be,” said Athos.

“And we’re standing here like fools,” added Porthos.

“Is there a problem?”

Athos cleared his throat and looked at his captain. “No. Sir,” he said.

Treville stared at him for several beats. “Then I suggest you pay attention when I’m speaking,” he said, clasping his hands behind his back.  

Athos noticed that questioning frown once again on Treville’s face before he continued doling out the day’s orders.   Athos wasn’t sure if he should ask him what was going on or if he should immediately apologize for not being wherever it was he was supposed to be.

“I’m getting a funny feeling,” said d’Artagnan.

“My stomach hurts all of a sudden,” said Porthos. “And I don’t think it’s ‘cause I’m still hungry.”

The possibility that he, Porthos and d’Artagnan had all forgotten to do something or be somewhere this morning was impossible. It was definitely Aramis who was missing.

At the Captain’s dismissal, Athos strode forward with Porthos and d’Artagnan beside him. Treville met them halfway with an incredulous look on his face.

“Where is he?” asked their captain.

Athos stopped short. “I was going to ask the same question of you,” he said.

They stared at each other for a moment then Treville leaned back, his brows pulling together. “I figured there was a reasonable explanation for his absence,” he said. “I was giving you all the benefit of the doubt. But you’re telling me you don’t know where he is either?” 

“No,” replied Porthos. “I…we… thought you knew something we didn’t. You kept lookin’ at us funny.” 

Treville’s face went red. “I was wondering where Aramis was!”

D’Artagnan held up his hands. “Why don’t we figure this out?” 

Athos nodded then remembered something d’Artagnan said earlier. “You saw him walking into the refectory this morning, did you not?”

D’Artagnan nodded, already turning away before Athos could suggest they start looking for Aramis where he was last seen. Porthos headed for the stables and Athos for the window to Aramis’ room that looked out over the courtyard.

He stuck his head inside the open window, immediately noticing the empty but unmade bed and let out a deep breath. He took note of the doublet and weapons scattered on the floor then pulled his head back out and went to meet the others at the table. 

“Not there,” he said.

“Horse isn’t either,” reported Porthos.

D’Artagnan came running out of the refectory. “He’s not there,” he said, skidding to a halt. “Serge said he saw him come in earlier then just leave all of a sudden without saying anything.”

“That’s weird,” said Porthos.

Athos scanned the courtyard and balcony above. “I agree,” he said, resting his eyes on his captain. “Permission to start a formal search?”

“Granted,” said Treville. “I’ll check with the men at the gates. See if they saw him leave.”

Athos nodded at his captain then turned to his remaining brothers. “He must be here,” he said. “He’s not in his room but his coat and weapons were there.”

“So we check all hallways and private rooms,” said d’Artagnan. “Ask everyone we see.”

Porthos was biting his lip as he looked at the ground. 

“What is it?” asked Athos.

“He didn’t look so good when he came back last night,” said Porthos. “Maybe we should check the infirmary?”

Athos shook his head. “A report would have been given to Treville.” He caught Porthos staring at him with wide eyes. “But check anyway.”

Porthos left and Athos sent d’Artagnan to gather help and check the upper floors of the garrison. Within minutes the courtyard was a flurry of activity as the men, both on and off duty, were searching for Aramis and calling his name.

Athos scratched his neck. Where would Aramis go? Why would he leave without telling anyone? These questions ran through his mind without answers, leading him to consider a heinous predicament- kidnapping. He spun toward the gate where Treville was talking with the men on duty. If Aramis were seen leaving, Treville would have announced it by now.

Athos kicked the dirt. “Damn it, Aramis. Where the hell are you?” 

“He’s not there,” called Porthos, crossing the courtyard. “And no one’s seen him.”

“Not up here either,” said d’Artagnan as he came down the stairs. 

Their captain joined them in the middle of the courtyard shaking his head. “No one saw him leave. Or anything suspicious for that matter. No one came in or out after he arrived last night.” 

“Then he must still be here,” said d’Artagnan. 

“There’s more than one way out of the garrison than the front door,” stated Athos. There were exits all over the place, but none he could conceive Aramis taking unless… He dropped his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I dismissed it at first, but what if he was taken?”

Porthos’ anxious demeanour quickly changed to anger. “Oh hell no.” 

“What about the church?” asked d’Artagnan, an optimism in his voice Athos hated to quash.

“Why would Aramis sneak out to attend church?” 

“He wouldn’t,” replied Porthos. “But I’m not taking anything for granted right now. I say we check.”

“What about a woman?” asked Treville.

“Not without his coat and weapons,” replied Porthos. “He’d never walk around Paris without them. Not even to church.” 

“Agreed,” said Athos. “But like you said, let’s not take anything for granted. We check every household where he is… welcome. And every church between them.”

“You men go,” said Treville. “I’ll keep the search going here, even as redundant as it seems right now. And god forbid a ransom note finds it way to our doorstep, somebody should be here to accept it.”

Disparaged by the thought, Athos followed his brothers through the arch leading to the streets of Paris. Their captain’s voice echoed in the tunnel as they passed through, calling out one more order. 

“Find him!” 

**_To Be Continued…_ **


	2. Chapter 2

**_Author’s Note_ ** _: I had no idea so many of you thought this way! Great minds, and Aramis lovers, think alike! Thank you for all your great reviews. I love hearing what you think, not just about the story, but about Aramis as well. And another thank you to JenF, for beta reading this for me._

* * *

**ii.**

The citizens of Paris were settling in for the evening when only three of the four brothers returned to the garrison. Enraged, and more than a little despondent, Porthos smacked his palm on the wall of the archway before entering the tunnel. “Where is he?!” he yelled, as particles of clay and debris, disturbed by the impact, slid down the wall.

“Hold on,” said d’Artagnan.

Porthos looked down and saw d’Artagnan’s arm across his chest. The Gascon was staring ahead, brows furrowed, so Porthos followed his gaze.

Treville was standing in the middle of the courtyard shouting orders while musketeers were running into the bunkhouse carrying blankets.

Porthos’ breath caught in this throat… _Aramis_.  

He ran to their captain, his brothers right behind him. “What’s happening?” he asked, his mouth suddenly so dry he could hardly speak. “Did you find Aramis?”

Treville turned to them with his hands braced on his hips, the creases on his face more prominent than usual. “You said you checked his room?” he asked, looking directly at Athos.

“I did.”

Porthos’ heart pounded, his shoulders shook and he felt lightheaded. “Captain,” he croaked. “What’s happening?”

“We found him,” said Treville. “Only moments ago.”

A musketeer ran to them dragging a man in finely dressed clothes and a leather bag clutched in his hands. “I have the physician,” said the musketeer. “Doctor Callais.”

“Go,” ordered Treville, pointing toward the bunkhouse.

Porthos didn’t wait for an explanation. He followed after them into the building, then to Aramis’ room.

He stopped short in the doorway, knowing deep down the man crouched in the corner surrounded by several musketeers, was Aramis.   A chill ran through him, he could barely breathe.   But he had to see him, touch him, know he was all right, so he rushed across the room and pushed his way through the small crowd.

Aramis was shirtless and shivering on the floor in the corner across from his bed; one arm wrapped around his torso while the other was wrapped around his head. On his back was a large deep cut, bleeding and oozing out over a large abrasion surrounding it. Porthos grabbed a blanket one of the musketeers was bringing to him and threw it over his friend.

He knelt and rolled Aramis into his lap, his want of communication outweighing the need to protect the injury.

“Aramis? Aramis?”   He called his friend’s name while rubbing a hand down his cold cheek. Aramis didn’t open his eyes, even when Porthos rubbed more vigorously.

“What happened? Who did this do ‘im?” His voice boomed in the small room, causing those that didn’t know him well to startle.

The physician stepped forward and lowered himself to Porthos’ level. Porthos looked at him, swallowed then set his jaw. He could not allow himself to break down. “You can help him, right?”

“I need to see what is wrong first,” said Dr. Callais, in a kind voice. “Let me see him. Bring him to the bed.”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Porthos, crawling out from under Aramis. He picked up his friend with the help of d’Artagnan and together they carried Aramis to the bed where they laid him down.

“Roll him toward me.”

Porthos did as the physician instructed, holding Aramis by his trembling shoulders as his back was examined.

“I didn’t see him.”

Porthos looked directly at Athos. “You said you checked his room!”

Athos took a step back, ran a hand down his face. “I didn’t see him,” he said again. “I looked in the window and… I… didn’t see him.” 

Treville put a hand on Athos’ shoulder. “He was in the corner. You couldn’t have seen him from your angle.”

Porthos went rigid. “Why didn’t you look closer?!” He glanced at Treville. “He was here the whole time?”

Treville nodded.

“Why didn’t you look?!”

Athos stepped forward with an outstretched hand. Porthos let go of his friend to swat it away. He knew it wasn’t Athos’ fault. He knew Athos had not done this to Aramis, but the swordsman was an easy target for Porthos right now.

“I’m sorry,” said Athos. 

Porthos couldn’t look at him without wanting to hit something, so he set his sights, and undivided attention, on Aramis. 

On his side and facing the room, Aramis shivered while the physician prodded the wound. Porthos felt tiny tremors rippling across their friend’s cold skin, so he inched his own body closer, hoping to give Aramis some much-needed warmth.

“How did this happen?” asked the physician, dabbing the open wound with a cloth. “This doesn’t look like it was made by any sort of blade.”

Porthos looked closer at the wound. The physician was right. The splitting of the skin was jagged, not smooth, looking more like a tear rather than a slice or stab. And the abrasions and bruising surrounding it were not conducive to a blade injury either. Red, shredded skin mottled with dark purple bruises consumed the entire left side of Aramis’ back from his shoulder blade to his waist. 

“It looks like he was hit with maybe a plank or something?” said Porthos.

D’Artagnan knelt beside the bed and leaned in. “He was also wet when he arrived, remember? Perhaps that’s why he’s cold?”

Porthos lowered his head till his forehead rested on Aramis’ shoulder. The signs were there last night, and not one of them had taken heed. He closed his eyes and rubbed his hand up and down Aramis’ bare arm. “I’m so sorry. 

“I’d like to try and stitch this.”

Porthos sat up and glared at the physician. “What do you mean, _try_?”

Dr. Callais was threading a needle as he spoke. “The skin may not come together,” he said. “It may be too ragged, but I will try my best. Just hold him still.”

Porthos adjusted himself on the edge of the bed so Aramis’ head rested in his lap. He tilted their friend forward for the physician to access the wound, leaving Aramis’ limp left arm hanging off the bed.

Still kneeling, d’Artagnan held the pale, thin fingers of their friend in one hand while rubbing his arm with the other. “He’s so cold,” he said.

Porthos leaned over to look at Aramis. “I know,” he said, brushing fallen hair from their friend’s eyes. “I can feel him shivering.”

“I’ll start the fire,” said Athos, and Porthos saw him move to the hearth near the door.

He’d yelled at the swordsman, accused him of being negligent, and now that his anger was dissipating, Porthos felt a little guilty. “Thank you,” he said. “I’m sure Aramis would appreciate it.”

Athos turned back and nodded. That was all it took for the two of them to sort out their feelings.

“Everyone out,” said Treville. “Let’s give Aramis some privacy. I know you’re all concerned, but it’s a little crowded in here.”

Porthos watched Treville usher all but himself, Athos and d’Artagnan out of the room, no one questioning why they were allowed to remain.   Treville came back to the bed once the room was emptied and asked if the physician needed anything. Their captain left a moment later to retrieve the fresh water and towels he was instructed to gather.

Silence descended onto the room with the only sounds coming from the physician as he cursed under his breath when he missed a stitch. Porthos rested his head against the wall unable to watch.

Aramis still trembled in his lap, which probably made the needlework much more difficult. Porthos and d’Artagnan continued to rub his arms while trying not to get in the physician’s way. When the fire had been going strong for several minutes, Athos put some of the blankets on the hearth to heat them, then brought them over when ready.

They placed one of the blankets against Aramis’ chest where it wouldn’t interfere with the physician’s work, and one on top of his legs. It was hard for Porthos to tell with all the shuddering, but he swore he felt Aramis flinch when the blanket was placed against his bare skin. His body seemed to move a little as well, rolling forward into the heat.

“Aramis was sent to Orleans right?” D’Artagnan’s voice cut through the silence, jolting not just Porthos but the physician’s hand as well.

“Yes,” replied Treville, leaning against the archway dividing the two areas of the room. “Delivering King’s letters to a Comte in the area.”

Treville pushed off the wall and headed for the bench under the far window where he sat down. “It was an easy assignment. There shouldn’t have been reason for any sort of attack. That’s why I sent just him.”

“Who says Aramis was attacked?” asked Athos.   “This could have been an accident. I don’t believe he wouldn’t have said something last night had he been attacked on the road.”

“What about his horse?”

“Yeah,” said Porthos, nodding at d’Artagnan. “What about his horse? He walked into the garrison last night.”

“We’re not going to know anything until he wakes up,” stated Athos. “Which should be soon, right Doctor?” 

The physician hemmed and hawed before raising his head. “I’ve stitched it the best I can, but it will need to be tightly bound to keep it all together.” He stood up and went to the table where he threw the needle and thread into a bowl then pulled a thick roll of white cloth from his leather bag. 

“First I’d like to clean up what the needlework created,” he said, coming back to the bed. “It wasn’t easy stitching that… that mess back together, and he unfortunately bled a lot during the ordeal.”

Porthos cringed, not wanting to imagine what could have caused such a savage wound. Then he shifted sideways so he could get an arm under Aramis, careful not to disturb the injury. And while d’Artagnan helped by pulling, Porthos pushed their friend upright.

Powerless to stop himself, Aramis slumped off the side of the bed.

Porthos’ quick reflexes saved him from landing on the floor as he dropped to his knees, twisting in time to catch Aramis’ limp body. With a gentle touch, Porthos reached behind his friend’s neck and pulled his head down to rest on his shoulder and held him in place. Then he wrapped his other arm around him so he wouldn’t fall to the side.

Discomforted by the fact that Aramis felt cumbersome in his arms, and his skin only slightly warmer, Porthos whispered into his ear, “I’ve got you, brother.” Then with his right hand, Porthos stroked the back of Aramis’ head. “I won’t let go.”

Dr. Callais sat on the edge of the bed where he could access Aramis’ back. Athos stood nearby holding the bowl of fresh water and towels Treville had fetched, so the physician didn’t have to reach too far while cleaning the wound.

When the cool water touched Aramis’ skin, Porthos felt him shudder. The large musketeer pulled back to check on him, inadvertently moving his shoulder where his friend’s head rested.

Aramis’ head fell to the side. His lips moved as if to speak, but nothing came out, so Porthos reached behind his neck and pulled him back down to his shoulder. “Not yet,” he said. “Just sleep. There’ll be plenty of time for talking later.”

A blood stained hand rested on Porthos’ shoulder, and he turned to look into the smiling face of the physician.

“You’re a good friend,” said Dr. Callais, as he dabbed the wound with the wet towel.

The words were meant to be a compliment, Porthos knew that, but they stung- hard and deep. He was no friend. A friend saw when another was in trouble.

Porthos closed his eyes to stop the tears from making it past their burning rims.

A real friend would not assume everything was fine simply because history had proven that theory time and time again, when in fact, history was notorious for repeating itself with dire consequences.

With a heavy heart, Porthos wondered how many silent pleas went unheard because everyone assumed he was fine?

Countless times, Porthos had thought his friend dead or doomed, and yet Aramis always showed up with a smile on his face ready to fight. So many times in fact, Porthos believed his friend was charmed.

Aramis possessed the strongest sense of vitality Porthos had ever seen. It was in the way he spoke with exuberance and passion, the way he sauntered instead of walked and in the way he carried himself with confidence and never hesitated. But now Porthos realized the error of his deduction; Aramis wasn’t infallible, he was human like the rest of them.

“He fooled me,” Porthos said, loud enough for the others to hear. “Had me believin’ he was blessed.”

_And it’s your own damn fault_ _,_ thought Porthos as he held his friend tighter than he ought to. _For being so damn good at living_.

“Aramis had me fooled as well,” said Athos.

“Everyman needs help and protection once in awhile,” offered Treville.

D’Artagnan stared at the floor. “Unfortunately, we weren’t there when Aramis needed it.”

Porthos fought through his twitching jaw in order to speak. “Well, he may have fooled us, but we failed him. And for that, I’ll never forgive myself.” 

“Yet, it’s in his nature to forgive us,” said Athos, his words triggering a sharp pain deep in Porthos’ chest.

“Maybe he shouldn’t,” mumbled Porthos. “Maybe we don’t deserve it this time.” His body trembled, his breath hitching with every sob he forced back down, so he buried his face into the side of Aramis’ neck to stifle his emotions.

The physician continued to work, wrapping a long clean white strip of cloth around and around Aramis’ chest and stomach until he ran out of bandage. Porthos pulled away from his friend so the physician could secure the wrap then helped lower Aramis onto the bed.

Aramis was nearly as white as the bandage around him. His lips were tinged blue and slightly parted, and his shoulders quivered from shivers once again. Porthos found it difficult to watch his friend in this state, and when he placed a blanket over him he felt an overwhelming need to fall onto the bed and envelop his friend’s body with his own. But if he did, he would never let go, so he dropped only the blanket and put a hand on his forehead instead.

“He’ll most likely have a fever soon, won’t he?” he asked, looking at the physician. 

“In time, yes,” said Dr. Callais. “That is likely to happen.”

“But he’ll be fine?” asked d’Artagnan, his voice infused with optimism.

“The wound will not likely kill him unless it re-opens and bleeds aggressively,” replied the physician. “So let us hope that whatever has caused his hypothermia won’t either.” 

Porthos was about to deny the notion that some _condition_ could defeat Aramis, but bit his lip. Assumptions like that had caused this situation to get as bad as it was, and he now felt it was time to stop propagating the lie.

But the alternative meant there was a chance Aramis would not survive, and Porthos refused to think that way, it was much too painful. “No,” he said, unable to contain his inner voice. “Not Aramis. If being thrown out a window can’t kill him or… or…” He searched for words, his mind frenzied by anxiety. “Or musket or sword, then no sickness can either.”

Athos let out a long, exasperated sounding breath. “Porthos…” 

The large musketeer held out his hand, stopping the swordsman mid-sentence. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “No. I can live with this lie.”

D’Artagnan frowned. “What lie?”

Porthos swallowed. “That Aramis is invincible,” he said. “Anything else is just blasphemy to me.” 

It was awhile before anyone else spoke, and it was the physician who broke the silence. He did not feel comfortable putting anything in Aramis’ mouth while he was unconscious for fear of him choking, so over the next few hours he instructed them all to watch and wait, and keep changing the blankets with warm ones from by the fire.

Treville needed to take charge of the garrison and eventually left, but everyone else stayed. The physician sat at the end of the bed while Athos and d’Artagnan sat at the table. By the time the room turned dark and the lanterns and candles were lit, Aramis had not awoken.

 

**_To Be Continued…_ **


	3. Chapter 3

**iii.**

Sustained by adrenaline and consumed with nervous anxiety, d’Artagnan needed to move. He got up from the table hoping to expend his tumultuous energy by tidying the room. He picked Aramis’ shirt off the floor and held it up to fold and place on the bench by the window when he noticed something.

“It’s torn,” he said, holding it for the others to see.

The back of Aramis’ shirt had a rip on the left side, ragged like the cut, and the edges were stained with blood. D’Artagnan brought it to the bed for Porthos and the physician to take a closer look, while behind him Athos swiped the marksman’s doublet off the floor.

“This is intact,” said Athos. “Nothing. Not even a scratch.” He threw it on the table then picked up the weapons still on the belt and tossed them on the table as well.

“What do you think happened?” asked d’Artagnan.

“It’s still a little damp,” said Porthos, holding the shirt. “And this hole was definitely not made by any blade.”

D’Artagnan considered what he’d seen last night when Aramis arrived; wet, tired, dishevelled. He looked at Athos when he considered something else. “Was he late?" 

“No,” replied Athos. “In fact, he was early.”

“Early and without a horse,” said Porthos. “This gets stranger and stranger.”

A loud broken cry startled everyone in the room. Aramis had awoken.

The marksman was curled into himself facing the wall, his mouth open as continuous screams bellowed from between his lips. His eyes were unfocused and his body shook so hard not even Porthos and d’Artagnan could control him.

“Aramis… Aramis…” repeated Porthos, wrapping his arms around his friend.

D’Artagnan went for the legs, holding them still so Aramis would not kick the wall. He felt the physician squeeze in beside him and made room.

Dr. Callais put a hand on Aramis’ forehead then drew it back. “It’s not a fever,” he said, rushing to the table.

D’Artagnan struggled to retain his grip on his friend’s thrashing legs as he watched the physician frantically pull vials from his bag. Aramis continued to scream, harsh and heartbreakingly that which Porthos could not calm with soothing words.

“What’s happening?” asked d’Artagnan, looking to where Dr. Callais was pouring wine into a cup. “Is he having some sort of fit?”

The physician was terse when he turned back holding the wine. “No,” he said. “He’s still cold. His muscles have been contracted for so long, it is most likely wreaking havoc with the injury on his back.”

“What?” asked Porthos.

The physician looked at him. “Do you really want a physiology lesson right now?” he said. “Or shall I treat him?”

Porthos nodded, then he sat up and started to remove his own shirt.

D’Artagnan watched as the big man proceeded to undress down to his braies and stockings then move under the blankets to wrap himself around Aramis. It was body heat he was providing, and d’Artagnan thanked god for his friend’s insight. He recalled a time or two while out on missions when he’d needed Porthos’ warmth and how much better he’d felt within his bear-like embrace.

The marksman’s tremors decreased with the skin-to-skin contact, but d’Artagnan wasn’t sure if it was because he now had extra warmth or because Porthos was restricting his movements with his strong grasp. But the screams continued, loud and filled with anguish, which reached all the way through to d’Artagnan’s heart, where it latched on and squeezed tight. 

“Sit him up, he needs to drink this,” said the physician, standing next to the bed with the wine in hand. 

Porthos pulled himself and Aramis into a seated position with Aramis leaning on his chest. The screams diminished to moans at the movement, but the pain evident on the marksman’s face still distressed d’Artagnan. 

When he noticed Aramis’ eyes were open he smiled. “We’re here,” he said, releasing his vice-like grip on his legs to rest them on top.

“Hurts,” said Aramis, his eyes fluttering open and closed. 

When Aramis spoke his first words in over a day, d’Artagnan felt the weight of the world rise from his shoulders. It wasn’t what d’Artagnan wanted to hear, but the sound of Aramis’ voice was comforting nonetheless. “You’re cold,” he said, patting the marksman’s legs. “You’re shivering.” 

“My back,” said Aramis, turning away from Porthos’ hold. But the large musketeer didn’t let him. 

“I need you to drink this,” said the physician. “It’ll stop the tremors and relieve all of the pain.”

“What… is it?” asked Aramis, his voice crippled by his chattering teeth.

“It’s something strong,” replied the physician. “You can only take a little.”

Aramis swallowed and continued to shiver, his words broken by moans and full body spasms. “What… is… it?”

The physician held the cup in front of Aramis and reached for one of his hands. “Take it and drink,” he said.

Aramis pulled his hand away and it dropped to his side. “No… what…”

The physician held the cup to Aramis’ lips, but this time Porthos pushed it away. “He wants to know what it is!”

The physician stood up and exhaled. “It will work,” he said. “That’s all that’s important.”

D’Artagnan heard a growl from deep within Porthos’ chest and he felt the same building in his own chest. “Tell Aramis what it is,” he said, his voice even.

The physician dropped his head appearing almost ashamed.

“Tell him!”

Athos’ voice startled the physician and he jumped.

“It’s opium,” said the physician. “All right? It’s pure form opium.”

The breath caught in d’Artagnan’s throat. “That’ll kill him.”

“Only if he takes too much,” replied the physician. “The right amount will relax him enough to stop the tremors. And if he doesn’t stop shaking those stitches will tear, he’ll start bleeding again and we’ll be right back where we started. That is, if he doesn’t freeze to death first.”

The room was silent for several moments. D’Artagnan could hear his own heartbeat. He watched Aramis’ face for any sign of comprehension, wondering if he even understood what was happening. “It should be his choice,” he said, quiet and obstinate. “Let Aramis choose. He knows what’s good for him.”

They waited for a response, watching as Aramis looked at each of them. It was hard to tell what was going through his mind, and d’Artagnan questioned again if he even knew what was happening. Aramis still chattered and every once in awhile his body would convulse and he would let loose a scream or groan.

“Give it to me,” he finally said. “Just don’t… don’t let me stop breathing.”

“What?” Porthos’ face went red, his eyes wide. “That could happen?”

“It’s a side effect of the seed if too much is taken,” explained the physician. “But I promise I know what I am doing.”

D’Artagnan leaned across Aramis’ legs to look in his eyes. “Are you sure you want to do this?” The results could be disastrous, but it was in Aramis’ hands, not his. All he could do was support his decision whatever he chose and hope he understood the situation. He considered making the decision for Aramis, but even of sound mind he wasn’t sure which to choose. It was a gamble either way, with devastating consequences on both sides, so he decided that it didn’t actually matter if Aramis understood. But he hoped Aramis would say no, and was disappointed when he didn’t.

“Yes,” said Aramis, slowly lifting a hand. “Give it to me.” His thin fingers trembled as he held them up. Porthos put his hand around them to stop them from shaking and together they received the cup into their hands.

D’Artagnan didn’t like this, but he also didn’t like the state his friend was in so he said nothing, stood back and prayed the physician and Aramis knew what they were doing.

“I can’t take… It won’t stop…” said Aramis, his head nearly vibrating against Porthos’ chest.

Aramis, with Porthos’ guidance, pulled the cup to his lips.   It banged against his teeth as he tried to drink, sloshing wine down his chin.

“Only a few sips for now,” said the physician. “We’ll see how you react then we’ll know if you can handle another draught later.”

“No more,” said Porthos, passing the cup back to the physician. “He doesn’t need any more of your poison.” 

The physician sighed, but as a man of higher education and most likely noble birth, he knew how to stand his ground against those that questioned him. “Aramis needs to finish the whole thing,” he said in an even voice. “He can take it slowly, but it’ll do no good if he doesn’t take the full dose. ”

Porthos growled and motioned for Dr. Callais to give him back the cup. “If this kills him, then I’m gonna kill you,” he said, resting the cup on his thigh till their friend was ready to drink again.

“Fair enough,” replied Dr. Callais, with a nod.

The physician’s confidence assured d’Artagnan that Aramis would be fine, relatively speaking of course. It was hard for d’Artagnan to watch Aramis so fragile and docile, but watching Porthos react with fear and anger was just as difficult. He wasn’t sure if the tightness in his chest was over one or the other, but possibly both.

“We’ll be with him all night,” he said. “We won’t take our eyes off him.”

**_To Be Continued…_ **


	4. Chapter 4

**iv.**

“Athos?” 

“You’re awake.”

“Hot … Why … Can’t move.”

At the foot of the bed, Athos flushed with relief as he pushed away from the wall. It was the first time Aramis had woken since the opium. “That’s Porthos,” he said. “You were cold. He was giving you warmth. Would you like me to wake him?” 

“Yes.”

Porthos grumbled and stirred when Athos laid a hand on his shoulder, then bolted upright when his surroundings seemed to come into focus. “What? Aramis? Everything all right?” 

Athos pulled the large musketeer off the smaller one, his relief even greater now that he could see for himself Aramis was breathing steadily. It had been a long night, watching and listening, with several occasions where their own breaths were held, but Aramis had made it through the worst. He also no longer trembled, which Athos knew was a clear step toward recovery. That, or the opium was still strong in his body.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

Aramis rolled onto his back, grimaced then froze when a spasm of pain appeared to wrack his body.

Athos and Porthos used gentle hands to continue their friends’ momentum and roll him onto his right side. The marksman’s hair fell over his eyes, and when Athos pushed it back the skin under his fingers felt warm. He sighed. Now it was time for the fever to begin.

It was only the two of them in the room with Aramis. The physician had gone to rest while d’Artagnan had gone to check in with their captain. Neither had returned, and Athos did not want to completely abandon Aramis, so one of them had to go.

“Porthos, get Dr. Callais,” he said, pointing back toward the door. “And fetch some water and clean cloths.”

Porthos hesitated for a moment, and then left in a hurry. Athos knew he didn’t want to leave, after all, the marksman and Porthos were the closest of all of them, but it wasn’t easy for Athos to express his feelings and while he could, he wanted to clear the air with Aramis in private. He knew the rest of them wanted to share the same words, but as their leader, Athos felt he should be the one to initiate what he surmised would be a long, painful and impassioned road to forgiveness. 

He knelt beside the bed so they were on equal ground, so close they could not escape each other’s gaze.   “Do you remember anything?” he asked.

“Everything,” said Aramis, his eyelids struggling to remain open.

Athos cleared his throat. “Were you attacked?”

“No.”

Athos cleared his throat again, and became acutely aware of his legs turning weak and shaking underneath him. “Good,” he said. “You understand I had to clear that up first?”

“Yes.”

Guilt was no stranger to Athos, but no matter how much experience one had with it, it never became easier and Aramis was not making it any less arduous with his short, clipped answers.

Even with the fever brewing, there was an apparent anger in his eyes that bore through Athos leaving behind a burning shame. Athos did not blame him. In time, Aramis would forgive them but till then he had every right to hate them all.

“I’m sorry,” said Athos. “And I cannot think of any other words that could possibly portray what I am feeling right now other than the deepest shame. Nor could any of your brothers.” He hung his head, erroneously breaking the eye contact he’d wanted so desperately to hold.

Aramis swallowed. “I said nothing,” he whispered.

The words bit and Athos looked up. “No,” he said. “Do not put any of this on yourself.”

“I wasn’t,” replied Aramis, his voice soft and strained. “I didn’t think I had to say anything. You should have seen...” Aramis closed his eyes as his last words disappeared on his lips.

Athos knew the conversation was over. Aramis could not roll away and turn his back on him, nor get up and leave the room. All he could do was close his eyes, and that was all it took for Athos to realize his brother did not want to talk to him. It crushed Athos, but with Aramis so fragile right now, he didn’t want to push. He also realized that the forgiveness so willingly given by Aramis, was not going to come as easily as it had in the past.

_And it shouldn’t_ , he thought. They did not deserve an easy apology, which was usually too readily given from Aramis.  

“I hear he’s awake,” said Dr. Callais as he entered the room.

Athos got up and backed away from the bed. He was on his way toward the door when Porthos stopped him.

“His horse arrived this morning,” said Porthos, following behind the physician. He grabbed his discarded shirt from earlier and threw it on. “Excellent recall abilities, but poor communication ones. Still don’t know what happened to Aramis.”

Athos continued to the door with an unease he could not shake. “He’s awake now, perhaps he will explain.” 

“Where you goin’?” asked Porthos.

Athos paused, controlled his trembling hands by running them through his hair. “To see if you missed anything with the horse.”

“The captain and d’Artagnan are looking after it,” said Porthos.

His mind raced, he didn’t know what to say. He just knew he had to leave. “Then I’m going to get Aramis something to eat.” 

“He shouldn’t eat anything yet,” said Dr. Callais.

Athos threw his arms in the air. “Then I’m going to drink,” he said, leaving the room with hurried steps.

Athos wasn’t used to feeling flustered. He really did need a drink, something to calm his nerves so he could think straight. Never had Aramis looked at him with such disappointment. Anger and frustration Athos could handle, no friendship existed without them, but the despondent and questioning eyes Aramis had laid upon him left a hole in his heart it apparently was trying to fix by beating faster.

It was not loyalty in question, but the sheer blindness and callous disregard of him and his brothers, something of which Athos felt truly ashamed.

After swiping a decanter of wine from the table in the courtyard, he went to the stables where he shooed away the stable boy and went to stand with Aramis’ horse. Treville and d’Artagnan were nowhere to be seen, so Athos rested against the stall and patted the horse’s muzzle, his eyes carefully wandering over the animal’s body and tack in search of answers.

There was nothing missing, no injuries to the horse, leaving Athos with an empty feeling inside that the wine was not filling. Treville and d’Artagnan entered, making enough noise to startle the horse and Athos stood upright, cleared his throat before they saw him.

“I hear he’s awake,” said d’Artagnan. “How’s he doing? Did he say anything?”

Athos let out a long breath. “He said enough.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Treville.

Athos couldn’t put voice to the words in his head; it pained him too much to speak aloud.

“Athos?” asked d’Artagnan, in a slow voice. “What happened?" 

“He’s angry,” said Athos. “And more so, he’s hurt.”

Treville frowned but d’Artagnan dropped his head. Athos was not surprised by either reaction for Treville had not been there last night upon Aramis’ arrival. Their captain didn’t know how they had all watched their brother walk away in need of help. D’Artagnan knew, and his shame and embarrassment was evident by his slumped frame and inability to look anywhere other than the ground.

Treville was still frowning as he turned to each of them. “Of course he hurts,” he said. “We all saw the… wait… am I missing something?” The captain’s questioning look turned to concern.

“No,” said Athos. “But we did.” He passed the captain the decanter of wine as he walked by, motioning for d’Artagnan to follow. “And it is something we need to rectify quickly.”

 

**_To Be Continued…_ **


	5. Chapter 5

**v.**

By the time Athos left, Aramis had closed eyes, forcing Porthos to shake him gently to get his attention. It was time they talked. Never before had he felt this estranged from Aramis, and he physically ached from having to wait this long to unburden himself of shame. “Hey, you awake?”

When the marksman opened his eyes, they lacked their natural sparkle. It crushed Porthos’ spirit to see him so dejected, and all at once he felt weak and nauseous. There was no room to sit on the bed so he grabbed a chair and pulled it under him to sit before he collapsed.

Dr. Callais was at the table mixing liquids and powders, Porthos didn’t care what, his concentration was focused on Aramis who was looking at him with half lidded eyes and gently raised brows.

It was a questioning look, and Porthos had to swallow before he could speak. But he didn’t know where to start, nothing seemed appropriate or adequate. He knew, he felt, like he had to say something, so he opened his mouth and let whatever came forth tumble out. “What were you and Athos talking about?”

Porthos smacked a hand across his eyes and fell forward over his knees when he realized the bluntness with which he had spoken. He peered between his fingers and saw that Aramis’ expression had not changed. “I’m sorry,” he said, sitting up. “You know me, I’m not the best with words.”

“You’ve always been good with me,” replied Aramis. The marksman’s voice was soft, but his expression still tore Porthos apart inside. “Why didn’t you help?”

Porthos drew in a deep breath, more than he needed, but extending the act gave him time to come up with an answer that both he and Aramis could stomach. “I thought you were fine,” he said. He dropped his head again the moment he realized he’d failed in his objective.

The sigh from Aramis clearly indicated that was not the answer he’d been hoping to hear.

“I’m sorry,” said Porthos.

“Please move,” said Aramis.

Porthos’ heart leapt into his throat. “No. No, Aramis,” he said, showing his palms in both surrender and question. “We need…”

Aramis jerked his head slightly and Porthos turned around. Dr. Callais was standing behind him with whatever he was mixing at the table. “Oh, right, move,” said Porthos, rising from the chair. “I’ll let you do, well, just, yeah.”

Porthos backed away from the bed, watching as the physician helped Aramis sit up to receive what he assumed was medicine. Aramis spoke with Dr. Callais, but Porthos could not hear, and he realized his feet were edging him toward the door without any interference from his friend.

Aramis didn’t care that he was leaving.

Anger sprouted deep within Porthos and he banged his palm against the doorframe as he left, its force so strong his whole arm shuddered, as well as the wall itself.

Porthos stomped down the hallway, fists clenched and shoulders hunched forward. He was so angry with himself he punched another wall before turning into the refectory. Letting loose a loud, guttural growl he threw the first chair he came upon across the room.

“Porthos!”

The large musketeer turned to the doorway, his lips quivering and chest heaving. “He’ll never forgive us!”

“He will,” replied d’Artagnan, stepping into the room with Athos right behind him.

Porthos shook his head slowly. “No. Not this time,” he said. “You didn’t just see the way he looked at me.” He kept shaking his head as his hands migrated up to his hips. “He asked me why we didn’t help.” He paused and pounded his chest in an explosive manner. “And I couldn’t give him an answer!”

“He looked at me the same way,” said Athos, righting the upturned chair then dropping down into it. “It nearly broke me.”

“We should have seen it,” said Porthos. “He stood there right in front of us and we let ‘im walk away!” 

“We don’t know if it would have changed anything,” said d’Artagnan, still standing in the doorway. “The wound was already there when he entered the garrison, and the fever…” there was a break in his voice which made Porthos look at him. “There was probably nothing we could have done.”

As the young man’s words quieted, Porthos felt himself simmer into a state of disheartenment. “It would have made a difference to me,” he said. “To us. But most importantly, to Aramis.”

“I assumed he was all right,” said Athos, staring into his lap. “This is Aramis we’re talking about. The man survives everything.”

“Maybe we need to stop saying that,” said d’Artagnan.

Porthos looked at him pointedly, having already told himself the same thing only hours ago. “You’re right,” he said, nodding his head. “He’s vulnerable just like us. He hurts and bleeds and sweats just like all of us.”

“Unfortunately, he is much better at hiding it than _us_ ,” said Athos.

“He didn’t hide it last night,” retorted Porthos.

“No, he didn’t,” said Athos. He rose from the chair and walked toward the door with determination. “It was our blindness that caused this. So it is on us to seek forgiveness and let him know we will never let him down again.”

When Athos stopped and turned back to face the room, Porthos felt a burst of fire in his chest. Even if Aramis wouldn’t forgive them for this transgression, at the least, he should feel safe that it wouldn’t happen again.

He followed Athos and d’Artagnan down the hall to Aramis’ room where they found the door closed. Athos knocked tentatively before reaching for the handle, but it opened from the inside before his fingers touched the cold metal.

“He is asleep and I wish him to remain so,” said Dr. Callais, his figure filling the thin slit between the door and frame. “Your Captain has just left so I suggest you speak with him.”

The door closed in their faces. Porthos had it in him to push it back open and demand to see Aramis, but his friends knew him too well and guided him away before he had the chance. “Who is he to speak to us like that?” he said, his jaw so tight his lips barely moved.

“He is the physician,” explained Athos, still pushing him back carefully. “I don’t like it any more than you do, but he makes a very good point. If Aramis is indeed asleep, then we should let him remain so.”

D’Artagnan gripped his shoulder. “Maybe the captain has some answers,” he said, flashing a small smile. “We’ll talk to him, let Aramis sleep, then come back.”

Porthos grunted but acquiesced. “But when we come back, I ain’t taking no for an answer.”

Athos clapped him on the back. “Nor shall I,” he said. 

They crossed the courtyard together, three abreast as they made their way to the staircase. Porthos noted a flurry of activity near the main entrance wherein one of the newer recruits was heading out at near break neck speed. The distraction caught his attention, but did not break his stride as he bounded up the stairs after his brothers.

Athos knocked on their captain’s door and they all entered without invitation. Treville seemed bothered, but not by their hasty arrival.

“What do you want?” asked their captain, not sparing them a glance as he shuffled papers across his desk.

Porthos looked back out the door through which they’d entered. It dawned on him that something important was happening and he hoped it had nothing to do with Aramis. “What’s going on?” he asked.

Treville finally stopped, sighed and looked at each of them. “Aramis didn’t deliver the letters,” he said. “They were still in his coat.”

The guttural sound that escaped Porthos surprised even him. His closed his eyes and dropped his head. “This just keeps gettin’ better.”

“He told you this?” asked Athos, stepping up to the desk.

“With more shame than I care to describe,” replied Treville. His voice was even, the lines on his war-weathered face deep and more visible than usual. “I had wanted to spend some time with my injured musketeer, but now I find myself having to fix this problem.” He threw the papers still in his hand on the desk and turned away.

“Why…” said Porthos, and then he cleared his throat so his voice wouldn’t break again. “Why didn’t he deliver the letters?”

Treville stared at him a long time before answering. Porthos saw his demeanour soften with each deep breath he took, and he started to feel like he wasn’t going to like the answer so he braced himself.

“There was an accident at the Seine several lieu outside Paris,” said Treville.

Porthos caught the sharp look from Athos and reciprocated his concern with a nod. “That’s where the river’s at its worst,” he said. “No one crosses there. It’s too dangerous.”

“I’m sure Aramis felt the same, but the river bank disagreed,” said Treville. He came around his desk and leaned against the front with his arms crossed over his chest. Athos stepped back to stand next to Porthos.

“He fell in, didn’t he?” asked d’Artagnan, his eyes wide with astonishment. “That’s why he was soaking wet when he arrived last night.”

“Precisely,” said Treville. “As you remember, it was hot yesterday, he’d stopped for some water by the river sooner than expected and the embankment gave way. He cracked his back on one of the protruding rocks and found himself being carried down river. Rather frantically I would imagine.”

Porthos threw his head back. Aramis was a good swimmer, but the force of the river in that area was notorious for claiming lives if one weren’t cautious. Once again, it appeared as if his friend had bought the golden ticket. Porthos wondered if there truly was someone watching him from above. The rapids were devastating, and without someone to at least throw a rope, Aramis was lucky to have survived at all.

“How’d he get back here?” he asked, righting his head.

“How do you think?” spat Treville. After the harsh words he quickly apologized, blaming his anger on the situation and not the people. “He walked,” he said, quieter but with as much determination.

“His horse?” asked d’Artagnan. 

“By the time Aramis reached shore and hauled himself back to where he’d fallen in to retrieve his equipment, the horse was gone,” explained Treville. “After so much time without its master, it knew to come back home.”

“As did Aramis,” Athos said softly. “It would have been much further to go on to Orleans…”

“And with his injury…” added d’Artagnan, who had fallen into a chair near the desk. He was leaning over, rubbing his forehead, his eyes cast upon the floor by his feet.   “He came home for help.”

A cold shiver ran through Porthos, he swallowed hard trying to stop it from overtaking his limbs and making them shake. This was definitely getting worse by the minute and he wasn’t sure how much more he could take. He thought of Aramis and realized it didn’t matter how much he could take because he would take it all and then some for his friend, especially now after letting him down.

“And home wasn’t much help,” he finally said, looking around the room in search of eye contact from each of his brothers. When they met his gaze he knew they felt the same, not only were they going to have to make this up to Aramis, but also make sure they didn’t do it again.

“About that,” said Treville, interrupting his thoughts. “Aramis didn’t say much about his arrival last night, but the fact that he didn’t come to me the moment he returned to let me know of the letters, tells me he was in rough shape. I thought you all saw him last night?”

A long sigh came from Athos before he spoke. “We did,” he said. “And I beg you not to push this further, there is nothing you can say or do that could possibly make any of us feel worse than we already do. The loss of trust we saw in Aramis’ eyes is punishment enough. I honestly don’t know if I could take anything worse.”

Porthos momentarily thought that a few days polishing door knobs, or even a good flogging, might make him feel better, but on reflection he decided the only thing that would lighten his heart was to get his shame off his chest by apologizing, and of course, to see Aramis well again.   “Captain,” he said. “We need to fix this with Aramis…”

“On that I agree,” stated Treville. “Trust is a commodity that separates the musketeers from the other regiments. If you can’t trust each other doing what you do, then there is no place for you here.”

D’Artagnan jumped from his seat. “Wait,” he said, stepping to the desk. “You’re not actually talking about releasing our commissions?”

What Treville said was true, but Porthos felt the punishment was severe, even for this type of transgression. “Captain… let’s think…”

“Not yours,” interrupted Treville. He ran a hand down his face, holding his beard when he got to the bottom. There was a distant look in his eyes and he wouldn’t make eye contact with any of them. “But how eager do you think Aramis is going to be to go out there with you after this? How much resentment do you think he’ll have cluttering up his mind? He doesn’t need anger clouding his judgement, especially when he’s out there with the capacity to kill a tick at a hundred yards with a musket!”

“No,” said Porthos, shaking his head. “No, it won’t come to that. We’ll fix this. We’ll make this right.”

Treville stood, his face still red from his outburst. “See that you do.”

Porthos was the first to leave the office, followed by d'Artagnan. Athos joined them on the landing halfway down the staircase.

“When he wakes, we let him talk,” said the swordsman, looking at them from under the brim of his hat. “We will listen and then ask for forgiveness.” 

“And if he doesn’t give it?” asked d’Artagnan.

Athos started down the bottom half of the stairs. “Then we beg,” he said. “And we don’t leave that room until he gives it.”

**_To Be Continued…_ **


	6. Chapter 6

**vi.**

Aramis barely remembered talking with his captain. His head was cloudy, unable to discern between wakefulness and the dream world, with his thoughts unable to remain tangible for longer than a second. Concentrating on anything was a daunting task that drained energy he didn’t have to spare. On his stomach, his left arm draped over the bed with his knuckles touching the warm floor, he couldn’t even lift it back up to push the fallen hair from his eyes. He felt so heavy and lethargic.

But he was comfortable. Aramis no longer shook with the consistency of a humming bird’s wings, and the sharp tearing pain on his back had reduced to a slow, throbbing ache that at its worst, was tolerable. Most of all though, he was warm. It was something he thought he’d never feel again during that long walk back to the garrison.

As hot as the day was, the frigid waters of the Seine- where it was at its deepest and most volatile- had shocked his body numb. Coupled with the gaping wound he could only surmise was on his back at the time, which had induced at least a moderate amount of blood loss, Aramis thought he’d never feel warmth again.

So as he lay there in a sort of throbbing bliss, he was content to remain this way forever. He knew that was a myth, there was no way he would be left undisturbed for very long. Dr. Callais would poke and prod him soon, and of course, he knew his brothers would return.

The thought of them made him roll onto his back, the sting of the wound exactly what he wanted to parallel his anger. They had let him down and there was no way around it. Even after spending many hours in both dream and uncomfortable wakefulness trying to justify their actions, he couldn’t.

Aramis drew in a deep breath, purposely expanding his chest to ignite pain. The simple act pulled his skin and stretched his muscles, bringing tears to his eyes. He kept doing it, taking deeper breaths in order to deepen the pain until he could barely see the cracks in the ceiling anymore. His eyes flooded, obscuring his vision until the dam finally broke and his cheeks became wet with multiple streaks of tears.

There was a thought trying to push its way to the forefront of his mind, Aramis didn’t want to acknowledge it so he fought hard to push it away. His chest, cheeks and jaw ached from trying to stifle the painful thought he knew would break him if allowed to come to fruition.

He thought of the letters and his shame at failing the simple mission. He thought of the look of disappointment from Treville when he’d told him of this, and how he knew his captain did not fault him necessarily, but still… he had failed and now Treville had to fix the problem.

_Am I not..?_

_No!_

He rolled back onto his side and let his arm drape back over the bed. He stopped the thought from forcing its way forward, the burning in his chest building to a near unmanageable level proving his success at holding it back.

Aramis gritted his teeth, closed his eyes. Anger. He focused on his anger. Treville was angry with him; he’d have to explain the mishap to the King and face recriminations and shame in his place.

_I have only myself…_

He forced it away by focusing at how angry he was with his brothers for their failure to help him, or see that he needed help.

_Not worthy of…_

The thought kept fighting its way through the ones he was trying so hard to concentrate on. He rolled his face into the pillow with his head and neck now aching as much as his back. The tears wanted to flow, the anguish in his chest begged for release, but he knew the only way to relieve himself of the dogged ache racking his body was to accept the thought and let it flourish.

But he would not allow it. He could not allow it. He’d rather the pain, for addressing the bleak thought meant giving it life, and he wasn’t yet ready to do that. He wasn’t sure if he could survive the revelation.

“Are you all right?”

It was the physician, his voice quiet and all too comforting.

Aramis pushed his face deeper into the pillow to stifle the urgent flood of emotions rolling up from his chest.

“Is it the pain?”

Aramis wanted to answer but did not trust his voice or his ability to contain everything rampaging through his mind. He pursed his lips, drew in steady, controlled breaths and wiped his face on the pillow to hide the water stains on his cheeks. “No,” he said, turning to face Dr. Callais.

His voice cracked so he repeated himself after clearing his throat. “No,” he said, more clearly.

Everything inside him seemed to snap back into place as he said the single word. The fire in his chest and jaw diminished slightly and he no longer felt the strain of unshed tears behind his eyes. He looked at the physician and gave him an obstinate nod. “No, I am fine,” he said. “It’s nothing I can’t handle on my own.”

His chest ignited again. His answer, although meant to strengthen his resolve, broke the dam he had crafted in his mind, and the one thing he did not want to address shot to the part of the brain that controlled speech.

“Apparently I don’t need anyone,” he said.

The physician smiled, almost a small laugh, which not only confused Aramis but angered him as well.

“Those sound like words from a man consumed with pain,” said Dr. Callais. “Not one who is in complete charge of his faculties.”

_Perhaps_ , thought Aramis, but the physician’s words were not strong enough to quell his feelings of unworthiness. “I’m not in pain,” he said, rolling back so his left arm now draped across his bare stomach. “I’m hurt.”

The physician pulled a chair next to the bed and sat. He put a hand on Aramis’ forehead, let it rest a few seconds then leaned over the marksman’s body to examine the bandage where it covered the wound. With a satisfactory nod, he sat back and laid his hands in his lap. “I think you are being philosophical,” he said with a warm smile.

Aramis shrugged and closed his eyes for a long time before opening them again. 

“But I'm sure the men you fight alongside would be willing to help you with that, they seemed very protective of you last night. Wouldn’t leave your side.”

As if on cue, the door to his room opened and the three men in question entered.

Aramis swallowed and draped his left arm over his forehead while he stared at the ceiling.   There was no question in his mind they meant business as they spread out in the room; taking positions he was convinced were meant to corner him.

With their arms crossed over their chests, and with their hardened expressions, they seemed angry.   

_Good_ , thought Aramis. Anger was an easy emotion to deal with, and he could be just as angry as them. After all, it did make the best mask.

“May we have a word with our brother?” asked Athos, his question directed at the physician.

Dr. Callais looked at Aramis, who reciprocated with a small nod, then headed for the door.

Aramis pushed himself up the bed with what little strength he had, most of it was busy trying to hide the nervous tremors in his limbs, leaving him almost too weak to move the pillow so he could rest his head. Once settled he took a deep breath and watched Porthos, Athos and d’Artagnan make themselves comfortable, with the first sitting on the chair the physician had abandoned, the second resting against the bedside table while the other remained standing with his arms crossed over his chest.

Aramis now wished he’d told the physician he was still in pain because a draught would have been nice right now- something to take the edge off what was surely to come.

**_To Be Continued…_ **


	7. Chapter 7

**vii.**

Before Dr. Callais left he put a hand on d’Artagnan’s shoulder. The young Gascon looked into his eyes and followed their gaze to Aramis on the bed then back to him.

“It is none of my business,” he said, whispering in d’Artagnan’s ear. “But I sense something, personal, going on.”

D’Artagnan raised an arm to stop him from continuing but was hushed by the physician.

“I just want to warn you that M. Aramis has opiates in his system,” continued the physician. “I gave them, with his permission of course, this morning to help with the pain.”

D’Artagnan was pleased Dr. Callais included the permission part, and was also relieved to know his brother was not suffering too much physical pain, but this certainly put a damper on things. “Thank you,” he said, patting the physician on the shoulder before moving away.

The physician’s hand grabbed his arm once again, turning him back.

“That is not everything,” said Dr. Callais. “I must also warn you that because of this, well, let us just say M. Aramis is quite susceptible to his emotions right now.”

A long and weary sigh deflated d’Artagnan’s posture. He rubbed his forehead then straightened and offered his hand in gratitude. As they shook, d’Artagnan forced a smile on his lips. “That is good to know,” he said. “And thank you, again… For the warning as well.”

Dr. Callais bid good-bye with a nod. “I will be outside if you need me,” he said, before disappearing into the hall.

D’Artagnan walked to the bed, wondering what he should say. There were so many variables creating too many outcomes. All he knew for certain was that he didn’t want to make this decision on his own.

Athos was leaning against a table by the bed while Porthos sat in a chair. Neither was speaking to Aramis, who was sitting sideways on the edge of the bed with his head resting on a pillow against the wall. The marksman’s eyes were closed, so d’Artagnan decided to keep this discreet. 

He tugged on Athos’ sleeve and beckoned him to move away from Aramis. Porthos saw this and joined them by the door. D’Artagnan explained what the physician had told him, creating two similar reactions in his brothers that mimicked his own when given the information.

“I don’t know if this is the best time for this,” said d’Artagnan, quietly so he wouldn’t disturb Aramis.

Porthos leaned forward. “This might be the best time,” he said, his voice also low, but without losing any of its earnestness. “He’s an open book. He can’t hold back.”

Athos stood with his hands on his hips, staring at the floor to his right. When he looked at the group his eyes were tired. “I don’t feel right taking advantage of him while he’s in this state,” he said. He shifted and crossed his arms over his chest. “Especially in lieu of what has happened.”

Porthos grunted and threw his head back. D’Artagnan knew the large musketeer agreed with Athos, but it was hard for him to be patient. Like Aramis, he was a man of action, and having another circumstance delay the long over due conversation was like withholding bread from a beggar.

D’Artagnan was just as anxious to speak with Aramis, find resolution and solace, but at what cost? Aramis was a private man, so to question him when he was not fully in control of his defensive faculties was a transgression possibly greater than not seeing his need for help the previous night.

“Have you come here to talk amongst yourselves? Or can I expect you to eventually address me?”

The words, spoken clearly and with distain, pierced d’Artagnan’s heart. He swallowed and approached the bed to find Aramis had not moved, but his eyes were now open. D’Artagnan looked down at him and smiled, hoping it conveyed his truest sincerity. “We’re sorry,” he said. “Thought you were asleep.”

Aramis didn’t look at him when he replied. “You knew I wasn’t.”

D’Artagnan frowned despite himself. Aramis was a man of action indeed, but also a very perceptive one as well. “You’re right,” he said. He kneeled down, making himself lower than the marksman’s sight line. He dropped his head, drew in a deep breath and decided there was nothing easy about any of this, so trying to find an effortless way to say something was never going to happen.

“The physician says you are under the influence of an opiate,” he said, looking into Aramis’ eyes so there would be no question to his honesty. “We don’t feel that now is the right time to have this conversation.”

Aramis laughed. It was brief and non-humorous, inferring mild shock at the statement. “What conversation?” he asked. “The one you should have had with me the other night?”

D’Artagnan swallowed hard. He needed to push forward, honest and direct. “Yes.”

There was another small laugh before Aramis replied. “And have me forgive you?”

“Yes,” said d’Artagnan.

This time there was no smile, only contempt in Aramis’ voice. “Then I forgive you. All of you. Now let me rest. I can apparently take care of myself and don’t need anyone watching over me, so go. You have more important things to worry about I’m sure.”

Within seconds, d’Artagnan felt Porthos and Athos at his back. He stood up to stand united with his brothers as they looked down on Aramis.

“I don’t accept that,” said Athos. “But when, and if you do eventually mean it, I will.”

“You’re not thinkin’ straight, Aramis,” said Porthos. “Whether you know it or not. And don’t think for one second I have somewhere else to be other than by your side worried half outta my mind.”

“You’ve said your piece,” said Aramis. “Now let me have mine.” He closed his eyes and pulled the sheet draped over his waist up around his shoulders.

D’Artagnan couldn’t help but feel angry even though he knew it was unreasonable to be so. He pulled the chair by the bed under him and sat down, hoping that by the time Aramis awoke his senses would be back in place. “We’ll be here when you wake,” he said, leaning back.

It was soft, mumbled and barely coherent, but the one word uttered from Aramis made him smile.

A warmness enveloped d’Artagnan as he looked back at Athos and Porthos.

“What’d he say?” asked Porthos.

“Good,” whispered d’Artagnan. “He said, good." 

“Well that’s something,” said Athos, retaking his position against the side table.

They kept their peace for several minutes to let Aramis fall asleep, until Porthos scraped a chair on the floor as he pulled it out from the table to sit.

D’Artagnan cringed, but since Aramis had not stirred, he let out a relieved breath. “You know,” he said quietly, stretching his legs out in front of him. “Aramis once told me it wasn’t about justice, or helping those in need, but the fight itself that he enjoyed.” D’Artagnan paused and chuckled softly. “I thought he was just trying to rile me up for the fight at Pinon, but now that I think about it, I think he actually meant it.” He paused again, but this time, with a wistful countenance. “He lives to fight. He’s one of the strongest men I know.”

“He told me his parents wanted him to be a nun,” said Athos. When two surprised faces turned to him he smiled. “Well, join a monastery,” he finished with a smirk.

Porthos was tinkering idly with some of the physician’s bottles left on the table, his mind obviously lost somewhere in memories. “He’s saved my life more times than I care to count,” he said. 

D’Artagnan leaned over the bed and arranged the sheet draped over Aramis to better cover his body. “Always there to give support,” he said. “There with a joke when you need to laugh. And always there when you need help.”

A loud sigh came from Porthos as he sat back in his chair. “One for all,” he said. “He’s always been about that.” He stopped playing with the bottles on the table and looked up. “If he weren’t here, would those just be empty words?”

“Not for a single second,” replied d’Artagnan, and based on Porthos’ smile, he understood the big man agreed.

“But we would be like a soul without a heart,” said Athos. “Something would feel missing. So it is time for us to repay him so it doesn’t come to that.”

**_To Be Continued…_ **


	8. Chapter 8

**viii.**

The room was silent barring the occasional scraping of a chair across the floor. With Aramis no longer shivering, and his skin warm and pink once again- if not a little too warm, Porthos had opened the windows and let the fire die out. A cool breeze blew in, circling the room and shuffling a few papers. Porthos closed his eyes as it swept across the back of his neck, whisking away the droplets of sweat acquired from too much stress.

The others seemed to be enjoying the breeze as well, for both d’Artagnan and Athos tilted their heads back, letting out sighs of relief as if the wind itself was Aramis’ forgiveness.

The only one who didn’t seem to be basking in the refreshing wind was the marksman, who was curled under his sheets on his right side, his body trembling once again. The physician had explained this was a good sign, but Porthos wasn’t completely buying it. If he remembered correctly, the physician had said that shivers could re-open the wound and start the bleeding all over again, so why would Aramis’ trembling now be considered a good sign?

“Because now his body is trying to fight a fever,” Dr. Callais had explained. “Before, Aramis was trying to retain heat but when a fever causes the body to shake, it means it is capable of fighting off whatever is ailing it.”

It still didn’t make sense to Porthos, but he was willing to believe it if only to make himself feel better.

After Aramis’ final word before falling asleep, a little hope had sparked in Porthos, and he assumed his brothers as well. Aramis had said, _good_ , which quite possibly meant he’d wanted them to stay, leading Porthos to deduce that perhaps Aramis’ previous words were indeed stated under the duress of the opiates. He hoped so, because the words had been so devastating, yet so meaningful, and unfortunately, based on history, quite true.

Every time Aramis had been hit or thrown through a window, each time he’d seen the marksman squirm after dismounting or limp through a doorway, ran through Porthos’ mind. They had- no, _he_ had- dismissed it, assuming Aramis was fine because he was still walking and not complaining, or he preferred to take care of himself and not bother anyone. 

It seemed as if they’d been wrong this whole time. 

How much resentment was Aramis harbouring? Had it all built up over time, culminating into what was said this morning? Was it all being emphasized by the opiates in his system?

Truth was a strange thing. It could be buried, told, expressed and even demonstrated, but one thing it could not do was remain hidden for too long. It always had a way of coming out. And when one’s defences were down, be it by opiate, pain, defeat or ale, its path to fruition was much easier. Which made Porthos believe that although Aramis might be emotionally fraught right now, what lay beneath his woeful disposition was indeed the truth.

The marksman felt alone, probably even uncared for.

Porthos knew that wasn’t true, but to Aramis it was, making it very real to him.

Porthos needed a distraction. He needed to act, not think. His mind was running in circles, leading to nowhere, and the silence in the room was not helping.

He took off his doublet and threw it on the table where the others had discarded theirs a long time ago. “When’s he gonna wake?” he said, running a hand down his face.

“I’ve been awake for awhile.”

Startled by Aramis’ confession, Porthos froze. D’Artagnan and Athos rose from their chairs, equally as surprised.

“I was comfortable and didn’t want to be disturbed,” said Aramis, his eyes still closed as he lay on the bed. “But now I’m hot.” He pushed the sheet covering him down to his waist, exposing the bandage still wrapped around his torso.

Porthos saw a sheen of sweat coating his chest and brow and reached for one of the towels soaking in a bowl of water. He approached the bed then bent down beside his friend and wiped away the fever-induced dampness, eliciting a smile in Aramis. Maybe he wasn’t as angry as Porthos thought.

“How you feelin’?” asked Porthos, tossing the towel onto the table behind him.

Aramis blinked repeatedly, only capable of keeping his eyes open after nearly a minute. “Like I’ve been trampled by a thousand horses,” he said, his voice thick with mucus. He coughed gently, bracing his torso as he did, his face scrunching in discomfort during the painful ordeal.

“It’s good to see you awake,” said d’Artagnan.

“Yes,” added Athos, standing next to the Gascon. “You’ve had us worried for several hours now.”

“And probably will continue to do so for at least another few days,” whispered Aramis.

Porthos frowned. Had he heard right? Aramis was speaking like nothing had happened? He seemed himself- no anger, no bitterness, no desolation.

 _My god_ , thought Porthos, _those opiates really did a number on him_.

“What’s the last thing you remember?” he asked, sitting on the edge of the bed. Aramis did not recoil or close his eyes, or even try to roll away. He simply smiled back. Although weak and short, it was genuine nonetheless.

“Why do you ask?”

Porthos looked back at the others. They seemed just as confused, if not a little anxious. “You seem… different,” he said.

Aramis turned to him with a curious expression.

“More like yourself,” said d’Artagnan.

“I apologize if my earlier behaviour was unfavourable,” said Aramis. He licked his dry lips then went into another coughing fit. Porthos sat him up and reached a hand out behind him. A cup was put between his fingers, which he brought to Aramis’ lips so he could drink. After a few sips, Aramis pushed it away and thanked him. “I wasn’t myself.”

“I think you were more yourself than you know,” said Athos. He went to the table where a decanter of wine sat half empty. He poured a cup, finished it in one gulp and poured another.

Porthos considered doing the same.

Aramis closed his eyes, breathed steadily for several seconds, perhaps to stifle a cough or to prepare for the coming conversation, Porthos was not sure. But he seemed at ease based on the lack of creases around his eyes.

“You were angry, and quite visibly hurt,” said d’Artagnan.

“And rightfully so,” added Athos.

Aramis waved a hand. “Don’t give it another thought,” he said. “Everything turned out fine in the end, just leave it all be.”

“I told you we should ‘ave done this while he was still mucked up,” said Porthos. A sharp glance from Athos curbed his next statement. He cleared his throat, already regretting his insensitive outburst.

Aramis sat up with more exuberance any of them thought possible. “My horse.”

“He’s here. Came back on his own,” said d’Artagnan.

Aramis slumped back, grimacing and rolling onto his right side the instant his back hit the mattress. After taking a few deep breaths through pursed lips, he let out a long sigh. “I remember looking for him,” he said. His features softened as if lost in a clouded mind. “I went to the stable but he wasn’t there.”

D’Artagnan chuckled. “I believe you went to the refectory instead,” he said. “I saw you before dawn…”

Porthos understood why the Gascon’s words trailed off. He’d seen Aramis twice and did nothing both times. Porthos didn’t blame him, for Aramis had probably seemed fine. D’Artagnan saw him walking to the refectory after missing evening meal, and Porthos wasn’t sure if he’d have done anything differently if he’d seen it himself.

A noise, possibly a laugh, escaped Aramis’ lips. “I wondered why Serge was there.”

“Speaking of which,” said Athos. “Are you hungry? We can fetch something for you if you are?”

Aramis settled into the bed, tucking his hands under the pillows and closing his eyes. “No, but perhaps later. I just wish to rest.”

Porthos looked over his shoulder to gauge his friend’s expression. Rest was what Aramis needed, but the clearing of air and possibly forgiveness was what the rest of them needed. When he looked back to Aramis, he seemed peaceful and he hated to disturb him.

“In time,” said Athos. “First, let’s talk.”

Porthos sighed in relief. It had to be done, he was just grateful he hadn’t been the one made to force the situation. But now that it was initiated, he found the strength to continue. “We got a lot of apologizing to do and you should probably be awake for it.”

A strange look crossed over Aramis’ features. Porthos couldn’t tell what he was thinking, which he found odd since they shared a sort of unspoken language with each other. He waited for Aramis to explain, but no words were uttered, he merely stared back at him with a questioning look.

“You do know what I’m talking about, right?” asked Porthos, after glancing over his shoulder at the others.

“Yes,” replied Aramis. “But think nothing of it, I understand.”

“You didn’t feel this way earlier,” said Athos. 

Aramis pulled his hands out from under his pillow to grab the sheet around his waist. He dragged it up his body and tucked it under his chin. “Because I felt differently earlier,” he said, closing his eyes as if the conversation was over. “I’ve had time to think, and I’ve decided that it is I who should be asking for forgiveness.” 

“Okay, who is this and what have you done with Aramis?” asked d’Artagnan, stepping back and running a hand through his hair.

Aramis smiled gently, still not opening his eyes. “It is me,” he said. “And I acted as a spoiled child earlier, so please, forgive me for my countenance.”

Porthos stood up, paced the small area between the chair and the table. “No, no, no,” he said. “We’re here to apologize to you. We were wrong. We let you walk away when you needed help. No, we’re not getting off this easy.” He stopped walking and turned to Athos. “Make him stop being so nice.”

Athos snorted and shook his head. “No one can make Aramis do something he doesn’t want to,” he said. “If he says we’re forgiven, then we are forgiven. Whether we like it or not.”

“He can’t do that,” said Porthos. He returned to the chair, sat down heavily and leaned over his friend. “Don’t go forgiving us this easy. Do something. Say something! I can’t let this pass without some sort of punishment.”

Aramis drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. He opened his eyes and looked at Porthos. “I forgave you all hours ago, now let me rest.”

D’Artagnan dropped his arms and stepped up to the bed. “I’m with Porthos on this,” he said. “I don’t feel right being forgiven this way.”

“That is too bad,” replied Aramis. “What’s done is done and I’ve forgiven you.”

“You can’t mean that,” said Athos.

“But I do.”

Porthos rested his elbows on his knees and watched Aramis. He was waiting for him to say something, anything, show him a sign that he was as angry as he should be. But nothing happened, nothing was said and Porthos started to feel his anxiety getting worse with each passing moment. He rubbed his chin as if he had an itch that wouldn’t go away. His heart beat in cadence with the leg that now bounced nervously up and down.

He needed to feel bad, have Aramis yell at him, scold him, and say unfavourable things about his character. In short, Porthos needed to feel awful about this, not better, and Aramis’ effortless forgiveness was not giving him what he wanted or needed. 

Athos and d’Artagnan appeared to feel the same. The looks of guilt on their faces and in the way they fidgeted showed Porthos they were not happy with this unforeseen change in Aramis either.

So once again, their wishes to seek a way to feel better about how they’d treated Aramis would have to wait; they’d have to stew in their guilty juices awhile longer while Aramis rested. And since the marksman was on his way to falling asleep, Porthos thought it better if they all left and not disturb him further.

The physician would watch over him, and Porthos really needed a drink… and was sure Athos, and even d’Artagnan could use one as well.

**_To Be Continued…_ **


	9. Chapter 9

**ix.**

Aramis was alone when he woke. The physician had probably gone to eat, or speak with the captain or… Aramis didn’t really care. He was alone, that was all that mattered, and the silence of the room was disturbing. He was restless. He looked to the door where his brothers had left, letting out a long breath through his nose as he ran a hand through his hair to push it back off his face.

Aramis needed them to understand the depth of hurt they’d caused. He could never reciprocate what they had done, it was not in his nature, but not giving them the satisfaction of grovelling, or being able to clear their chests, would tear at them longer than travelling any road to redemption ever would.

It was a bitter reaction, he knew, but in time it would fade away and everything would return to normal between them all, so he felt justified in partaking in a little selfish indulgence in the meantime.

This also meant Aramis could avoid looking into their shameful faces. As angry as he was, he did not want to hear their hurt voices, it would tear him apart and make him grant leniency much more swiftly than they deserved.

Aramis thought it odd how giving forgiveness had become a form of punishment. They must truly feel bad, wretched even, for doing what they did, which in a way made Aramis feel better. Caring now that they had hurt him, meant they’d cared in the first place. 

He wondered what he had done to make them act the way they had? Why had they not seen him needing help? Why hadn’t they rushed to his side the moment they saw him dragging his sword, or barely able to stand? They obviously cared, but why didn’t they help? 

He pushed the blanket off his chest, drew in a deep breath through his nose, closed his eyes and pushed up. Sitting upright caused the congestion in his lungs to shift and he coughed forcefully, aggravating the wound on his back and causing a loud groan to escape through his gritted teeth. After a taking a few moments to let the muscles of his back settle, and to gather strength, he moved his legs off the side of the bed and for the first time in almost two days he put his feet on the floor.

Bent over with his fingers tangled in his hair to massage his head, he tested his ability to breathe deeply without coughing, succeeding in three breaths before he was forced to expel thick, wet mucus from his lungs.

_Several days indeed_ , he thought to himself. Aramis had swallowed so much water during his unfortunate trip down the Seine, he was lucky he hadn’t caught pneumonia, so a little cough wasn’t too much to put up with. As long as he knew his life was no longer in danger, he felt he should get up and make himself both useful and presentable to the world again.

Since he was capable of taking at least three breaths before being forced to cough, he rationalized he was fit to stand. On his feet he swayed, but only a little, which he could deal with so he went to his dresser, pulled out a clean shirt and proceeded to the washbasin. After a quick trim of his beard and cold water splashed on his face, he sat down to put on his boots.

A fit of coughing slowed his progress, wherein he had to lean on the table to brace himself in order to catch his breath. But he was still breathing and he hadn’t yet collapsed so, undeterred from his mission, he got up and proceeded out the door. 

The trip through the courtyard was slower than he’d expected, and his head swam with nearly every forward motion his body took, but he was determined to make it to the table so he reached deep down and pulled out the last remaining strength he had and arrived at the table just short of collapsing.

“It is no wonder we thought you invincible.”

With his eyes closed, Aramis rested his forehead in the palm of a hand spread across his forehead. “Athos,” he said. “Please don’t yell.”

“My voice is quite calm,” he said, and Aramis felt someone sit down next to him on the bench, followed by the awareness of several other people surrounding him.

“What are you doing up?”

Aramis opened his eyes and looked at d’Artagnan. “Making use of the day,” he said.

“But not your brain,” said Porthos. “We should get you back to bed before you fall over.”

Before Aramis could protest, Porthos’ strong arms were reaching beneath his and lifting him upward. His ability to fight back was negligible and he found himself on his feet must faster than he wanted.   “I’m fine,” he said.

“Oh no you’re not,” said Porthos, draping one of his arms around his neck. “We’re not falling for that again.”

“To your room,” said d’Artagnan.

“Where you’ll stay until the physician has properly cleared you,” added Athos.

Aramis had only his words in which to protest, his strength sapped merely by placing one foot in front of the other as he was nearly dragged across the courtyard and down into the bunkhouse.  “What are you doing?” he asked.

“What we should have done the last time you walked up to that table,” replied Porthos. “We’re taking care of you, so stop fussing.”

“I am not so far gone I cannot be up and about,” replied Aramis, but his words were ignored.

In his room, Porthos put him on the bed, but at least he allowed Aramis to remain sitting.   Once settled, his lungs protested the previous activity by rattling with every breath he took. Aramis coughed up what he could, bracing his torso to help abate the pain. He felt lightheaded afterward and leaned against the wall. His three brothers stood before him, looking at him with concern and a degree of disappointment.

“What are you trying to prove?” asked Athos.

“I’m not trying to prove anything,” replied Aramis. “I just don’t need to stay in bed, I can be useful. As far as I know I’m going to be fine so, I don’t see the point in not being productive.”

“And it’s that behaviour that makes us think you’re fine, when indeed you are not,” said Athos.   “You fight through harm, and illness and injury like it’s a mere inconvenience. How are we supposed to know when you truly need our help?”

“You just never seem to want it, and sometimes act like you don’t even need it,” said d’Artagnan. “But we’ve always been there to give it without question. ”

_Damn_ , thought Aramis. _This is exactly what I was trying to avoid_. He ran a hand down his face, the makings of forgiveness building in his chest. “Perhaps I could learn to be a little less private,” he said. “Maybe not be so gallant in the face of my own possible mortal danger.”

The remark elicited a quiet laugh from Porthos, which was Aramis’ intention, so he smiled back.

“And maybe we could be a little more forceful when you say you’re fine,” said d’Artagnan.  

There was nothing about his brothers’ demeanours that he could be angry about. And now that he was staring, he realized it wasn’t disappointment in their faces, but sadness. How could he stay mad at them?

Aramis nodded, grateful for the sentiments. “Thank you,” he said. “But really, was that so hard?”

Porthos sat beside him on the bed, leaned forward and looked back at him over his shoulder. His eyes were pleading, even a little wet. “More than you would think,” he said. “You’re an easy man to love, my friend. But you’re set in your ways. You’d fight tooth and nail to defend what you stand for. I just know that it takes near a catastrophe to stop you, so when ya do fall… I know the world’s about to crumble and that’s not easy to face.”

“You’re our storm gauge, Aramis,” added Athos. “So if you stumble or stagger, we wonder what chances the rest of us have.”

“When you’re ill, or injured, it’s easier to pretend you’re not and look the other way,” said d’Artagnan. “Otherwise, it’s too devastating. It’s like being shown we’re not invincible either.”

“Those are kind words,” said Aramis. “But you must not think of me that way.”

“We know that now,” said Athos. “Because losing you through other means would be just as devastating.”

“And from now on,” said d’Artagnan. “We’ll try and think much less of you.”

“And I will try not to be so brave and courageous,” replied Aramis

**_Finis._ **


End file.
